


Of Curry, Cake and Classics

by S_Faith



Category: Bridget Jones's Diary (2001), Bridget Jones's Diary - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-11-30
Updated: 2008-12-01
Packaged: 2019-03-18 04:56:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13674702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/S_Faith/pseuds/S_Faith
Summary: What if the first Turkey Curry Buffet meeting had been at the first Turkey Curry Buffet?





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, painful memories of being this age… complete with Bridget-style specs and braces. And hair.
> 
> Disclaimer: Still not mine. Sigh.

_Many years ago_

As much as he enjoyed his academic pursuits, he was very glad to be home again for the holidays. Unlike most of his contemporaries, he rather liked his parents; he got on well with them perhaps, as his mother said, because he had always been mature beyond his eighteen years. While he wasn't entirely sure he agreed with that—judging by his lack of social interaction with persons of the opposite sex—he was glad all the same that he had such a good relationship with them.

He'd learned on Boxing Day that they had been invited to attend a party on New Year's Day at the house of people who had just that autumn moved into the village; the wife of the pair had been a friend of his mother's from before she was married, and she had stayed in touch with both her friend and her friend's husband regularly over the years. He felt rather honoured to have been asked to attend, as it meant he was thought of as a man, no longer a boy.

Upon their arrival, they were all greeted with not only the overpoweringly strong smell of curry and welcoming smiles from his parents' friends, but he found especially effusive and almost embarrassing praise heaped upon himself.

"My, how you've grown since I saw you last! So tall and _handsome_ , and smart as a whip, I hear!" said the woman, his mother's friend, clapping her hands together and beaming.

"Thank you, ma'am," he said quietly, feeling a flood of self-consciousness race across his cheeks. He was in fact tall, but felt like his limbs were too long and awkward for his body; his hair was unruly and unfashionably cut, and he did not consider himself in the least bit handsome; and while he did think he possessed an above average intelligence, it was nothing he would ever have dreamt of boasting about. However, it would have been rude not to thank her for her well-intentioned compliments.

"So modest," continued the woman, "and polite."

"And Mark," said his mother, "I'd like you to meet Mr Jones."

He turned to find himself face to face with a round-faced, genial-looking man, who extended his hand towards Mark and smiled. "Nice to see you again," he said. "Care for a drink?"

"Colin!" said his wife in exasperation.

"Pam, he is of age," reminded Colin Jones.

He heard his own parents chuckle, as Pam looked nonplussed.

"Let me get you a glass of punch," decided Colin, wandering away.

Mark found himself being introduced to what felt like scores of other family friends; he remained, for the most part, silent, bearing even the most intrusive of questions with dignity (or at least he thought he had). The worst of them was from a man called Geoffrey Alconbury, who, clearly in an advanced state of drunkenness, asked if he'd yet dipped his nib in the Cambridge ink, with exaggerated winking motions and a lecherous grin.

"Oh, Geoffrey! Don't embarrass Mark," helpfully chimed in his wife, Una, but then made Mark's mortification complete by adding, "Can't you tell he's _sensitive_?"

Colin finally reappeared with the punch, luridly red and smelling strongly of rum. "Sorry, Mark," he said. "Looks like you could use it."

"Thank you," he said gratefully, taking a long drink, choking a little on the alcohol taste. The Alconburys wandered away to mingle.

"Heard you're at Cambridge," Colin Jones said. "Very impressive."

"Thank you, sir."

"Heading for a particular vocation?" he asked.

"Law," he said.

Colin nodded. "Think that might suit you well."

"Thank you," he said. "How do you like life in Grafton Underwood so far?"

"Much smaller than Buckingham, that's for sure," he said. "I like it though; have always wanted to live in a small village, Pam adores this house, and some of her friends are settled nearby, your parents included."

"It is a very nice house," agreed Mark, glad to have conversation of a more mundane nature. 

"Nice and quiet, and the air's fresh," continued Colin. "Thank goodness for Kettering so nearby, though, or my little moppet might go mad with boredom."

"Your… your what?" Mark asked, slightly perplexed.

"My little girl," he said with a smile. "Going from a town the size of Buckingham to a village like this is a bit of a culture shock for her. I think it's going to be good for her, though, growing up here." Colin sipped his own drink. "Let me see if I can't find that child of mine, introduce you properly."

Mark offered a smile and with that Mr Jones wandered away. When he didn't immediately return, Mark figured he'd probably gotten waylaid by his wife.

As he continued with his drink, Mark looked around the room and noticed that he was something of an anomaly at the gathering. There were some younger children, aged eight or nine, and there were adults who were all about his parents' age; there were no other people his own age. Even though he'd always been treated as mature beyond his years, he felt like he was standing there in a sort of limbo. It made him realise that part of his life, his childhood, was truly behind him; even since his arrival home from Cambridge from the break, he noticed his father speaking to him more like an equal than a son. It was a strange realisation to have, made him feel almost like something intangible had been lost that he would never recover, but he was definitely no longer a boy. He was a man.

He wandered to sit on what appeared to be a brand new sofa, watching the people mill about around him, listening to their conversations, though contributed little to them due to his somewhat introspective and taciturn nature. He was more comfortable listening and observing.

There came a point, however, when the constant chatter, the trumpets of laughter, the smoky haze and the abundance of sloshing alcoholic drinks really got to him, and he realised he needed some air. Looking downward to avoid meeting anyone's eye and inadvertently sparking an unwanted chat, he wound his way towards the kitchen and headed for the back door. He thought if he could just get outside and have some air, some silence, for just a little while, then he might be okay.

The sun had long gone down and it was rather on the chilly side, but with the dress shirt he was wearing under the thick knit jumper (a cable-knit with bulky braid patterns), coupled with the warmth he felt from the rum in his punch drink, he thought he'd be all right long enough on the back patio without his coat.

Immediately a light a little ways away caught his eye, too close to be the neighbour's house, and he squinted his eyes. As his vision adjusted to the darkness, he recognised it was a potting shed or some sort of storage unit, and the light he saw was shining through the window. He approached it, his shoes crunching in the snow, and peered into the window.

What he saw was what appeared to be the horrified face of a female child, who then opened her mouth and screamed.

He ducked around and into the shed, hoping to calm her, but his entrance seemed to make her look more terrified even as she went silent. "It's all right," he said as she backed away. He was surprised to see a lit cigarette between her fingers, especially since she appeared to be young; not quite adolescent, judging by her development, or rather, the lack thereof. "I'm sorry. I'm just here for the party and saw the light on."

She was blonde; her hair was fashioned into what he presumed was a trendy bob, which looked very out of place on her, dressed as she was in a pink frock with white polka dots and a wide, white belt. She wore plastic spectacles with frames that turned up at the corners, blue eyes wide behind the lenses.

"You scared the bloody hell out of me," she said. He realised she had orthodontics on her teeth; very peculiar for a girl her age, as was such colourful language.

"I'm sorry," he said again. "I didn't know anyone was out here." He furrowed his brow, wondering if the Joneses regularly kept children in the potting shed. "What are you doing out here, anyway?"

………

Oh, _God_.

The whole day had been a nightmare, a bloody nightmare from start to finish; recently arrived to Grafton Underwood, she had been excited to learn that her parents' friends had a son already in university, and she looked forward to impressing him with her maturity and style. She'd even picked out the most fashionable dress she owned, had planned on going into Kettering to get her hair cut into a new, trendy style that all the girls in London were wearing.

Then her mother had caught wind of her plans.

"Oh, no, you will _not_ wear that ridiculous outfit," she said with a sniff. "You'll wear that lovely pink dress from Auntie Una. And I'm not going to give you money for something I can do myself. How hard can it be? Sit down and bring me the scissors." 

"No!" she said. "Mum, _please_. I've got my own money."

"Bridget, you will not be walking all the way into Kettering in the dead of winter."

"It's not that cold," Bridget said, "it's not that far away, and I'm not a baby. I'm fourteen."

Her mother sighed in an exaggerated, long-suffering manner. "I'll tell you what. I'll ask Auntie Mavis to pop over. She used to work in a beautician's salon when we were younger. She can trim your hair for you. How does that sound?"

It wasn't as if she had a choice. She agreed.

Sitting at the kitchen table, with Mavis Enderby combing and snipping while her mother directed each cut, her glasses on the table before her and no mirror with which to monitor progress anyway, was torture of the highest calibre. 

"There! Perfect!"

Bridget threw the towel off of her shoulders, put her glasses back on and dashed to the loo, gasping when she saw the resultant cut. It was the right general idea, a bob, but the fringe was far too short as was the length of the bob itself. The net result made her face look even rounder and more childish than it already looked, more like one of the Campbell's soup kids than Madonna, and one with glasses and a mouth full of metal brackets, which was even more appalling to consider.

"Now Bridget," said her mother's voice, "come out and thank Auntie Mavis."

Bridget would have preferred to go out and sock Auntie Mavis in the jaw, but she took in a deep breath, and went back out to thank the woman. 

"Ohhhh, any time," gushed Mavis before turning to Pam and speaking as if Bridget were not even there. "Getting so tall, your Bridget; remember the day she was born. Before you know it she'll be a young lady, grown up and _blooming_ all over the place. You know." Mavis and her mother shared a look; Bridget merely wanted to die, knowing exactly to what they were referring: someday having a chest that was not practically as flat as a pancake, something she rather looked forward to so that people would stop treating her like she was a child, despite the horror of bra purchasing excursions sure to come, previously experienced in the trial-run of training bra shopping.

"I'm going in my room," sulked Bridget, stomping off.

"You're going to help with the potatoes," called her mother. "Una will be here very soon."

She wondered if she could will her hair to grow back, will her mother to come to her senses and allow her to wear the outfit of her choosing, and will herself a more mature figure, all by five in the evening.

She intentionally bunged up the potatoes so badly she had been sent out of the kitchen; triumphant, she went to her room, stared at the dress hanging on the closet door, stared at her reflection in her bureau mirror, and sighed, thus deflating. There was no getting around it. None of those things were going to happen.

At five, she slipped into white tights and pulled the horrible dress over her head, wetting her hair down a little to try to calm it, smooth out the slight wave to make it look longer. She wasn't pre-pubescent boy flat, but the dress sure made her look like she was.

It wasn't ten minutes after the guests arrived that she wanted to go and hide in the cupboard under the stairs and not come out until she was eighteen, or at least until she had swapped braces for breasts. She could only bear the comments likening her to a 'sweet little girl' or a 'dear child' with a forced, clenched-teeth smile.

Bridget definitely had to get away—meeting a grown-up university man could not happen under these circumstances—but her room was too obvious a hiding place, and to be dragged back to the party by the ear would be the ultimate humiliation. She also couldn't really walk anywhere, as it was full dark, and it being New Year's Day, her friends were likely to be otherwise occupied. Not that she had any of them close at hand, anyway.

Overhearing her father talking about not being able to wait until the spring to get some gardening going reminded her of his little shed out back, and she smiled. That would be her salvation.

Slyly she made her way to the kitchen, then slipped out into the night, racing across the snowpack to the shed, cursing herself for not having changed out of the infantile Mary Janes she was wearing. Quickly she found the light and switched it on. It was a little grimy and smelled of potting soil, but it might as well have been heaven.

 _A rather boring version of heaven_ , she realised in short order; she wished she'd been able to grab a magazine or her portable Walkman cassette player. Glancing around the shed, she spotted a packet of her father's cigarettes and grinned. She'd been curious to give smoking a go after seeing older girls at school looking so nonchalant and vogue doing so. She swiped one out of the pack, took up the book of matches, and touched it to the tip of the stick, inhaling slightly.

Then coughed violently.

Fighting to regain her breath, she stared at the burning thing and wondered how people sucked in blazing hot smoke on a regular basis, but then felt the effect of the nicotine flooding into her system. It felt… interesting, and she knew at once exactly why it became addictive.

She had slightly more success with the second drag, then the third, feeling smug at having mastered such a mature, adult skill in such a short amount of time. She smiled, practicing holding the cigarette in ways she'd seen the stars do so in the movies.

Movement in the corner of her eye caused her to turn quickly. When she saw a face framed in the windowpane—a man's face, glowing eerily in the light from the room—she literally shrieked, then went paralysed with fear as he entered the shed. For his part he was not acting like a mad killer or crazy person, and he spoke in a placating tone, saying he was just here for the party.

He was tall, with long, thin limbs, and had kind of unruly, bushy brown hair and dark eyes. He was dressed in a horrendous jumper with giant, thick cables on the front, and had a button-down dress shirt underneath it. She realised this must have been the university man she'd been looking forward to impressing that day; instead, he turned out to be the nerdiest person she'd ever met, and she fought the urge to giggle, not feeling quite so bad about her own awful dress and disaster of a haircut.

He asked her in a rather patronising tone why she was even out there in the potting shed anyway.

She realised that he could very easily snitch on her. "I just snuck a fag from my dad and wanted to try it," she said pleadingly. "Don't tell anyone."

He narrowed his eyes. "Little young for that, aren't you? Shouldn't you be with the others?"

"The others?"

"The other children."

A surge of indignant rage raced through her. "I am _not_ a child. I'm fourteen."

He blinked in surprise, his expression betraying the fact that he obviously thought she still was. _Grr_ , she thought.

"Regardless," he said eventually. "It's very bad for you. Not a habit you should start."

She rolled her eyes. _Christ_ , she thought, _he's practically a grandfather already._ "So why are _you_ out here?" she asked, changing the subject away from a potential tattling. "This is at least my house."

"It was a bit noisy and, um, smoky in there," he said, his eyes pointedly fixed on the plume rising from the cig. "Wanted to get away."

She laughed, leaning against the work bench. "Yeah, well, my parents' parties have that effect on people."

She saw a reluctant smile play upon his lips.

"So you're going to uni?" she asked.

He nodded.

"That must be really cool," she continued. "Staying out as long as you like with no curfew, parties and dancing and _drinking_."

"It's Cambridge. It's very hard work," he said matter-of-factly. "And I hope you are not entertaining thoughts of drinking as well as smoking."

She snorted. "Like I haven't tried that too."

………

Mark merely stared at her; he did not quite know what to make of this girl, dressed as adorably as a child, clearly quick-witted, bright and not without a sense of humour, but so anxiously determined to be adult beyond her years.

"You know," he said at last, "you really shouldn't be in such a hurry to grow up. Enjoy your childhood while you can."

He watched as she gave him a dirty look, then, without taking her gaze from him, brought the cigarette up to her lips and took in a long, deliberate, rebellious drag. Unfortunately it must have been a deeper drag than she'd ever taken, and she started hacking and coughing again.

"Oh, yes, I see your point," he said with dry sarcasm. "Definitely makes you look more mature." He walked back towards the shed door. "Well. I'd better get what I came outside for, some fresh air. Good night."

He heard her call out some kind of half-thought-out insult about falling in a lake so that his jumper would weigh him down and drown him, but he had stepped too far away to hear the rest of it. It was starting to get downright frigid despite the jumper, so he decided to slip in through the kitchen door again then wandered into the dining room, realising the buffet had been served.

"Mark!" It was his mother. "Have you had any supper yet?"

"Just about to," he replied, grabbing a plate and standing in line with his mum.

"Are you having a nice time?" she asked. 

"It's been… interesting," he said neutrally.

"Oh," she said. "I'm glad to hear that."

It hadn't been a particularly positive answer, but he let it stand as it was.

He knew he probably should have gone straight to the Joneses—or rather, Mr Jones, the seemingly more rational of the two—with the knowledge that their daughter was out in the shed doing something illicit. It was his responsibility as an adult, and it was truly in her best interest to be discouraged from experimenting with something as dangerous to her health as smoking. For some reason, though, he hesitated. Even though he had never said he wouldn't, she had asked him not to say anything, and he did not want to be thought of as a betrayer of confidences.

Just as they were almost to the front of the line, he saw Mr Jones heading into the kitchen and out through the back door. Mark felt a sense of relief, that Colin Jones would see the light in the shed and find his daughter without any intervention on his part; Mark suspected she'd deserve whatever punishment she'd get.

Moments later all present heard the back door open, her father's voice calm but forceful. "—can't believe you," he said, "filching cigarettes and sneaking out to the shed for a smoke. Have I taught you nothing?" As he marched her by the arm through the party crowd in the dining room (which had fallen absolutely silent), even though she was clearly mortified to be the centre of such a spectacle, she threw a withering gaze at Mark, filled with hurt, even betrayal. Colin Jones continued, "I'm so disappointed in you."

Mark instantly knew that she believed he'd told her father she was out there smoking. He actually felt badly for her; as much as he didn't approve of what she'd done, he knew how desperately she wanted to be considered an adult.

Colin Jones continued walking with his daughter up the stairs, barking coolly angry statements to her about how maybe she wasn't yet so old as to avoid a hiding; her protestations were feeble at best. The rest of the party had not yet made a peep. Mark had the feeling that an outburst of that sort from the usual quiet Mr Jones had shocked everyone into silence.

Pam Jones spoke up first. "You know young girls," she said, gabbling nervously with a smile, "how they like to defy and rebel at every possible opportunity…" Mark heard a couple of sympathetic sounds from the party crowd.

Several long, uneasy minutes later, Colin reappeared, looking a little sheepish. "I'm sorry about that, folks," he said. "She's not adjusting to the move as well as I'd thought, I guess."

There was a nervous laugh that permeated the room before party chatter resumed and the food line progressed on. Even though he had an unsettled feeling in his stomach from the events that had just transpired, Mark set his now-empty punch glass down in order to load his plate up with dinner: curried turkey with potatoes and carrots. It smelled good enough to give him his appetite back, and as he exited the line, he took a little more punch, this time from the unadulterated punch bowl.

He found a spot next to a table where he could stand and eat. His thoughts turned again how horrible he felt for her, new kid in a new town; he wanted to let her know that he had no hand in her being caught in the shed with a cig, despite having considered doing so. Perhaps he could ask her father to let her know, but then he'd know that Mark had been out there with her and hadn't said anything afterwards, therefore seeming complicit in her wrong-doing. He sighed. He couldn't stand the thought of being dishonest to his elders. He realised he would have to talk to Colin Jones.

"Sir," he said, approaching Mr Jones on his way back from depositing his sullied dish onto the dirties pile, "I wanted to speak to you privately about your daughter."

Colin nodded, looking serious. "Man to man. I understand."

Colin led the way back to the kitchen. Mark waited for the door to swing shut before speaking. "I'd gone out for some air and saw her out there with the cigarette."

"I'm sorry for whatever she might have said to you," he said. "She has been surly since Christmastime. Think it's finally sinking in that we're here to stay."

"There is no need to apologise to me," said Mark. "Rather, I wanted to apologise to you."

"Whatever for?"

Mark was very confused. "For not coming straight to you to let you know. I had intended to."

Colin smiled. "Don't trouble yourself about it," he said. "It isn't your job to keep her in line. Besides, it was inevitable I should find her; I was craving a cigarette myself and remembered I left them out there."

Mark was not sure he felt any better. "I'm afraid, though, that she rather thinks I did tell you, after she asked me not to say anything," Mark said. "Will you be sure to tell her that I'm not actually a traitor?"

"Why don't you go on up and tell her yourself? I'm quite in the doghouse with my daughter at the moment, I think, and it might be nice for her to know she does have an ally in this world," he said, a touch of irony in his voice. "Her door's the first on the left, down the hall to the right when you go upstairs. Don't be surprised if she doesn't let you in."

………

_Bloody snooty high-minded double-crossing bastard!_

Bridget laid on her bed, staring up at the ceiling, tears still in her eyes from her humiliation and anger. She could not believe that the tall, bushy-haired geek from Cambridge had gone straight into the house and snitched on her; could not believe that her father dragged her in by the arm like a child and embarrassed her in front of everyone, multiplied by the fact that she was dressed in a frock that not even Shirley Temple would have been willing to wear on a bad day, and her hair was a fright wig.

She heard a gentle rapping at the door. "Bugger off, Dad," she called back, turning over on her bed and driving her face into the pillow.

"It's not your father. It's me. We… met in the shed."

She reared up and angrily called out, " _You_ can bugger off twice as hard, then."

"I—just wanted to let you know I didn't tell your father."

She drew her brows together and shouted back, "Yeah, right. He just _happened_ to find me."

"He told me he was looking for his cigarettes."

She got up, suddenly furious, and went to the door, opening it to see him towering over her, though he was blurry as she didn't have on her glasses. "Thought you said you didn't tell him," she said defiantly.

"I didn't—we spoke before I came up here. I thought about it, but I didn't tell him."

She stared up at him. "Yeah, well, still got caught, didn't I?"

"That's your own fault," he said in a rather stern voice.

"If you say 'I told you so'," she grumbled, "I'm going to kick you hard where it hurts."

She swore she heard him chuckle. "I'll be sure to say no such thing." He then asked, his tone a little more serious, "You're not still stinging, are you?"

"What?"

"Your… punishment."

Her mouth gaped open, and to her horror tears were filling her eyes again; she realised that while she was being given the longest lecture in her life by her father, this strange boy—and maybe everyone at the party—thought she had been given a few smacks instead; he must have assumed that her tears were from a painful backside and not the tears of the persecuted damsel-in-distress that she was. "I. Am. Not. A. _Child!_ " she said, her voice tremulous but strong.

"I only meant—"

She slammed the door shut in his face, marched back to her bed, and flung herself down on it in a most dramatic manner.

_Bastard!_

………

He hadn't meant anything by it, only concern because she was obviously still crying, and after what Colin had said about maybe not being too old for that sort of punishment, it seemed a logical conclusion to draw.

"I'm sorry," he said, though got no response; she either didn't accept it, or didn't hear him for her renewed crying. He opened the door, saw her on her bed, face down in her pillow, shoulders rocking with sobs. "I'm sorry," he said again.

He heard her stop crying, sniff, then her muffled voice: "I said go away."

"Actually, no," he said, "you didn't."

Silence, then: "I meant to."

He took a few steps into the room, which seemed to have books of one kind or another on every flat surface (including the floor), and decided to try to offer friendship to her, or at least an ear. "You can talk to me, if you like; I'm not so old that I don't remember what it was like to be fourteen."

She snorted a laugh in disbelief. "I don't think you could possibly understand."

"Try me."

She was silent even still, and did not turn to look at him, but then he heard her speak. "All my friends are in Buckingham. We talked all the time on the phone when I first got here in November, but now… they can't be buggered to call back. It's like they forgot about me. I have practically no friends here and there's nothing to do except walk to Kettering once in a while in the occasional search of civilisation."

"No one understands you."

She turned to look at him at last with red eyes and an irritated expression, then sat up on the bed; the dress made her look very much like a young girl and not the young lady he now knew her to be. "You don't have to be a jerk about it."

"No, I mean, that's how you feel. Like no one understands you."

She blinked her eyes, wiping wetness away with her fingers, then squinted at him as she was still without her glasses. "I don't think anyone does. And it's not like I can just hop in a car and go somewhere else, because A, middle of nowhere and B, kind of can't drive." She sighed, looking to the side. "Feel like a prisoner here."

"Have you talked to your parents? Your father—"

"My father," she said, interrupting him, "is a pretty good guy, but… I don't know. His work takes him away a lot and sometimes… sometimes I think he thinks I'm still a little girl. My mother… she loves it out here with all of her friends… she doesn't understand why I don't just make more. Like making friends is as easy as making ice cubes, especially in the horrible things she makes me wear, like this obnoxious, awful dress."

"It's not that bad. It's cute. It's nice."

She looked at him like he were mad, then, with a pointed look to his jumper, said, "About as nice as that jumper." Knowing how she really felt about it, he decided to change tack.

"It is easy for some people," he offered. "It's not for me, either. When I first got to Cambridge I spent nearly all my time in my room, to the point where I was three weeks ahead in my reading."

"No!" she exclaimed, as if such a thing were inconceivable.

"It's true," he said. "Not even a girlfriend. It was a fellow in the quad who finally came 'round and dragged me out of my room, made me come out to dinner every day with him and his friends. I realised that if I wanted to have friends, I had to be a friend. I had to try."

"But I _am_ trying. I've been calling my friends in—"

"I don't mean the ones you left behind," he said gently. "The ones who want to stay in touch with you will make the effort. No, I mean don't wait around for someone to physically drag you to the lunch table, so to speak."

She looked at him, still squinting slightly, but with an intensity that told him that she was really thinking about what he'd said. Perhaps the crisis was over.

"I heard something earlier about cake. Why not come down and have some?" he offered.

"I can't," she said balefully. "I'm… banished to my room."

He smiled. "Would you like me to bring you a piece?"

"Only if it's chocolate," she said with a small smile.

He took one last look at her before heading downstairs, and tried to think about what she might look like once she was past this sort of awkward stage between childhood and adulthood. He could tell that with her golden blonde hair, blue eyes, and winning smile, she would turn out someday to be a really lovely woman.

He saw that the cake was in fact out for the taking and was a deep chocolate with raspberry glaze, so he grabbed a plate for each of them.

He was attempting to covertly make his way back upstairs (since he was sure a piece of cake was forbidden) when he heard his father's voice: "Didn't think you cared much for sweets, son."

He whipped around to face the man, caught in the act of secret cake smuggling. "I don't." 

"Two pieces then?"

"They aren't both for me," he explained. "Bringing one to… a friend."

"Ahhh, Jones' young daughter, eh? Mission of mercy, I see, I see… well, carry on, my boy," he said, patting Mark's shoulder fondly.

When he got to her door, he rapped quietly three times.

"Yes?" he heard her ask.

"Chocolate," he said.

After a beat, the door opened. Looking much recovered from just a few minutes ago, she had donned her glasses again and her hair appeared to be a little less unruly. She accepted the plate. "Thank you," she said with a little smile. "Come on in."

He figured he had better before he was caught with the cake in the hallway.

He took a seat on a chair in front of her dressing table while she perched on the corner of her bed. She dug into the cake; it was clear that she thought it was more than acceptable.

He glanced around the room, his eyes grazing over the piles of books everywhere. "I see you like to read," he said, eating a bite of his own cake. It was very good, very moist.

"Hm? Oh, yes, yes." She smiled lopsidedly. "A lot of it's crap, I know."

"Certainly that's not," he said, pointing to a book at her bedside, Jane Austen's _Pride & Prejudice_, "though I've never had the desire to read it."

She looked at him like he was spouting blasphemy. "Why not?"

"It's all romance and such, isn't it? It's really more for…" He realised at her look that he had better not continue.

"Were you going to say 'more for _girls'_?" she said archly, though he detected the hint of a smirk.

"It is all about women and life in that era, which honestly, I have little interest in," he said to justify his opinion.

"It is _so_ much more than that, though," she said rather animatedly, her eyes bright, her cheeks flushing as she spoke; Mark could not help but think that with such a passionate nature, the boys would soon be fighting over her. "It's a very funny, very witty historical picture of daily life, of customs, of relationships, interactions and personalities; it shows that things aren't always as they appear, and that sometimes the thing you want most is found in the least likely of places—" She stopped suddenly; she then filled the silence with another bite of cake. After finishing, she said, "I'm just saying not to pass over it because you think it's 'for girls'."

"Duly noted," he said with a smile, charmed by her spirited defence.

"In fact," she said, bouncing up off of the corner of the bed and reaching for the bedside table, "you can have this one. I have a hardbound copy too."

He took the book from her hand, a little dumbstruck. "Thank you," he said stupidly.

"Let me know what you think," she said, then added wryly, "if you have time between all your reading at Cambridge."

"My dear girl," came a voice from the hallway, "I can't bear… oh!"

It was Mr Jones coming into the room, carrying a plate of curried turkey, surprised to see Mark was there.

"I'm sorry, sir," Mark said, standing with his cleared plate. "We got to talking."

"And to eating cake, I see," he said wryly.

"It's my fault," she said. "I didn't tell him I was sent up here without supper."

"Yes, well, your mother convinced me that wasn't such a good idea, though I suspect you hardly have the appetite for turkey curry now." He looked accusingly at her empty plate then turned to Mark. "I'm sorry for the bother, my boy," said Colin.

"It was no bother at all," Mark said. "I very much enjoyed the company."

………

The irony of her statement had struck her as she was saying it: things were not always as they seemed, and her own prejudices had very nearly cost her a rather amusing conversation. The university man had turned out to be not so bad after all, kind, friendly and helpful, even if he had turned out to be rather a geek.

As she recounted the events into her diary—a brand new Christmas present—she hoped he would read the book; _if for no other reason_ , she thought, _that it might help get him a girlfriend_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Helen Fielding's to-read list from _O_ magazine](http://www.oprah.com/omagazine/helen-fieldings-bookshelf), which inspired Bridget's defense of the book:
>
>> _Pride and Prejudice_ By Jane Austen
>> 
>> This is my favorite book of all time. I pinched the plot for my novel _Bridget Jones's Diary_. I also came as near as I could to stealing its hero, Mr. Darcy, by turning him into Bridget's Mark Darcy. (I thought both plot and leading man had been well market-researched over a number of centuries, and that Jane Austen wouldn't mind. Anyway, she's dead.) Austen wrote about the minutiae of women's lives in a way that is funny and dazzlingly accurate, giving you insights into what was going on in the social world without your even realizing you're getting an incredible history lesson.
> 
> According to Wikipedia, the [population of Buckingham is about ~11,500](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Buckingham). The reported population of Grafton Underwood seem to vary between 99-200, but suffice to say, it's not a big town (which makes Mark and Bridget not ever meeting before they did seem even weirder). Grafton Underwood is, however, located v. close to [Kettering, population ~51,000](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kettering).


	2. Chapter 2

_Many years later_

"But Mark," said Elaine Darcy, "you had such a nice time the last time you went."

Mark laughed. "Mother, the last time I went was nearly twenty years ago." He remembered that New Year's Day so long ago, remembered meeting the girl with the childish dress and the mouth full of braces, who had given him her dog-eared copy of Jane Austen… which, he realised guiltily, he had never shared his opinion about with her.

"And Pam tells me that her daughter will be there… so you can finally get to meet her properly! She's turned out very well, I hear; works in publishing, avid reader, very popular with her friends."

He smiled to himself, not surprised in the least.

"And," added Elaine, "lives very near to you, I'm told." She patted Mark's shoulder. "It's been such a rough few years for you with… well, _you know—_ " He thought of the debacle with his now-ex-wife and his former best friend, closing his eyes. "—and it might be good to meet someone nice."

In his mind's eye flashed the image of the fourteen year old who looked like age ten with the bob, the braces, the glasses and the pink dress, and he couldn't help chuckle. He knew she very likely didn't look anything like that any more… but that would be a hard image to shake. In the hopes of dislodging from her head the memory of the awful, bulky knit jumper and out-of-control hair from his late teens, he had been sure to stop in for a trim, and had taken extra care with shaving.

………

Some things never change.

Bridget was in her childhood bedroom, head pounding from a New Year's Eve hangover, standing facing what looked like upholstery fabric shaped into a dress and skirt and a ruffly red shirt to go with it, her mother's idea, apparently, of an attractive dress in which to meet a very nice, very rich barrister, one who was terribly lonely and just in need of the right girl. _Why do I not have the willpower to say no to my mum? Why?_ she thought, sitting on the edge of the bed and staring at the thing, then pinched the corners of her eyes in an effort to obliterate the pain. Bridget had, however, determined many years ago that in the long run it was just easier to capitulate to her mother's crazy wishes then be subjected to torture for months afterwards.

Why did it have to be this year though, the year when she'd be reintroduced to the nerd she'd met all that time ago while wearing the candy pink polka dotted frock of doom? She sighed. At least now— _almost twenty years later_ , she thought with a wince—she no longer had a terrible haircut, winged glasses, and orthodontics. Thank heavens for small favours.

 _Fuck it_ , she thought. _I'm wearing what I like; this particular man's already seen me at my worst._ She changed out of her clothes and into the dress she'd packed, then let loose her hair from the ponytail and brushed through it. After patting at her nose with powder and putting on some lip balm, she smiled at herself in the mirror, then headed down.

………

Much to his surprise, when Mark arrived at the house with his parents, Pam Jones (who looked much as he remembered only understandably older) had nothing for him but a big smile and a hug.

"Looking very well, Mark," said Colin Jones, who was also not much different than he remembered, save for the softer jawline and greyer hair.

"Thank you, sir," he said.

"Oh, come now. Call me Colin."

Mark grinned, though he was not sure he could actually do it.

"You look wonderful," said Pam at last, looking rather moony, which he was not sure he understood; "very good to see you again."

"Good to see you too. I'm glad I was able to make it."

"This must be a very hard time of year for you," Pam said confidentially.

"I'll get you a drink," said Colin, then dashed off for the kitchen; Mark understood the man's not wanting to be present for a discussion on the touchy subject of Mark's wife leaving him, was even amused a little at his lack of subtlety even as he drew in a deep, steadying breath.

"I try not to think too much about it," said Mark. "With the benefit of hindsight, I can see now I rushed too quickly into things."

Pam pursed her lips and nodded sympathetically. "Still, I'm so sorry."

"I appreciate your kind words."

She beamed up at him. "Oh, you are _more_ than welcome. Did you know that my daughter's here? She's upstairs getting dressed. She'll be _so_ pleased to see you, and you have _so_ much in common, both living in London and working and…" She started to falter a little. 

"And she's very much the feminist, and has an _incredibly_ glamourous life," chimed in Una Alconbury, presumably in an attempt to win him over to the idea of Bridget as a potential girlfriend, " _and_ is a social butterfly with millions of men taking her out all the time." 

Pam jabbed Una with an elbow, then gabbled, "Well not _millions_ , Mark, of course, but she has always been very popular with the boys ever since she discovered them, or rather, they discovered her… oh! Here's Colin with your drink."

"Figured you'd outgrown fruit punch," said Colin dryly, handing him a generous glass of dark red wine, holding a glass of white close to him.

Mark brought the glass up, caught the scent of the bouquet, which was very pleasant; the taste was exceptional. "Very good, thank you."

"Though you might approve," said Colin.

Out of habit, he found himself drawn to where his parents were standing. His mum was looking up at him with a familiar fondness and pride, only more intense than usual; his father was tipping a tumbler of scotch up, taking a sip.

"What?" Mark asked suspiciously, a grin playing on his face.

"Nothing," she said in an unusually coy tone. "Just… well, I couldn't be prouder of you, is all."

He knew his mother better than that. "And?"

"She's hoping you and Bridget hit it off," said Malcolm. "Snogging under the mistletoe and what not."

"Oh, Malcolm, stop it," she said, though she was flushing red. "I just want you to be happy, Mark, that's all."

Despite looking forward to seeing how the Joneses' daughter had turned out, he was beginning to feel a bit pressured by all of their expectations. "Mother, I've met the girl _once_."

"Twice," reminded Elaine. "At least. There might have been other parties you were both at as children."

From behind him he heard, like an approaching siren, his name called out. He turned slowly and saw Pam Jones, and…

His eyes fixed on her, and he could at once see the awkward young girl from so many years ago; however, he had been completely right about her, at least about her turning into a lovely woman. Her blue eyes looked up at him apprehensively yet challengingly, and her shiny blonde hair was loosely waved and just brushing her shoulders. Far from the pink polka-dot dress that had made her look much younger than she was, she had on a black dress that came down to just above her knee, longish sleeves and form-fitting enough for him to see that she had bloomed in other ways, underscored by the low vee of the dress' neckline and the silver floating heart on the chain that seemed perfectly framed by it.

He had a vague awareness of Pam speaking, reintroducing him to her daughter and vice versa, so he offered a polite smile and said, "It's very nice to see you again."

………

Coming downstairs had made her stomach twist into knots, waiting for the verbal onslaught from her mother wondering why she hadn't chosen to wear the floral nightmare dress after all; but instead, Pam merely looked at her with a surprising measure of approval, only mentioning that black "is the colour of mourning, not of New Year's parties and meeting men, _darling_." Bridget was, however, thankful to get away with as little criticism as she had.

She'd met briefly with her father, who seemed to have a glass of white wine at the ready for her. "You look wonderful, my dear," he'd said with a smile, though to be fair, he always told her that.

"Come on, darling," her mother had said. "Mark's here."

Might as well get it over with.

She first saw him from behind, speaking to his parents, and was surprised by how tall he was; she had assumed that her memory had exaggerated his height due to her own having been a little shorter at the time. She also found her eyes drawn (somewhat embarrassingly) directly to his backside, which, she had to admit, was rather eye-catching.

The back half had been nice enough. Then he turned to face her.

She was at once struck by the importance of a good haircut and meticulous grooming, as well as the indisputable fact that some people just were destined to look better with age. He was one of those people. He offered her a small smile and a compliment, which she then paid in kind: "It's nice to see you too."

Una fluttered in and pulled Pam away with a really obvious lie about gravy (considering this was a turkey curry buffet), leaving the two of them with their glasses of wine and uncertain looks.

"So," he said, his smile broadening a little, revealing rather handsome indentations around his mouth. "Have you read any good books lately?"

She stifled a laugh. _What an opening line._ "Not really," she said. "Have been too busy. How about yourself?"

He looked a little perplexed. "Um, no."

There was silence. This, she thought, was not starting out particularly well. Maybe he was single for a reason.

"Well," he continued tentatively. "I did actually recently get the opportunity to read one of the great classics. You might even have heard of it."

"Oh?" she said, thinking he was probably referring to Socrates, Aristophanes or similar.

"Yes," he replied. " _Pride & Prejudice_." He lifted his wineglass up and sipped from it, leaving her reeling. She was convinced he'd forgotten all about their discussion, had tossed the paperback into the waste bin the moment he'd gotten home.

"Oh," she said at last, cursing herself for the strangled quality of her voice. She cleared her throat, wishing she had a cigarette to calm herself down. "And what did you think?"

"Very good, very thought-provoking," he said soberly. "Very allegorical on some level, I thought, what with Mrs Bennet being incapable of controlling her emotions, and Mr Bennet incapable of showing his; they are sort of the extremes between which Elizabeth must balance herself."

Bridget was surprised. This was nothing she'd ever thought of herself. She covered her silence with a sip from her own wine.

"Then there was the very radical notion, for the time, societally speaking," continued Mark; she could have sworn she saw his eyes glance down to her neckline, "that one should not simply settle for the first offer that comes around, or any offer that does not truly appeal to one's heart, as Elizabeth did with proposals from both Mr Collins and Mr Darcy… well, at first anyway."

She nodded. "To stand up for what you want, regardless of what society wants for you." Oddly enough, she thought of her mother and the dress she'd refused to wear.

"Exactly," he said; his smile was warm but his gaze, intense.

"So," she continued after a beat, realising she had not blinked in many moments. "I hear that Cambridge has paid off for you."

He nodded. "Human rights law. One thing can be said: it's never boring."

She smiled.

"I hear that books have been kind to you, that you work in publishing."

She uttered a scoffing little laugh. "Well, yes. In the publicity department."

"There's nothing wrong with that," he said. "I'm sure you're very… _passionate_ about your promotional ideas." She didn't imagine it; she saw his eyes flit down to her chest as he paused in his sentence.

"Some of the books are, honestly, not very good," she said, reining in her amusement at Cambridge checking her out; "there's one we're doing now, due to launch in April… it's just appalling, yet we've decided to promote it as 'the greatest book of our time'."

"Are you trying to tell me," he said with a sarcasm-laden voice, "that there is no truth in advertising?"

She chuckled, as did someone nearby; she suddenly became aware of her mother, Una, and his mother hovering on the periphery, and at once felt like a lab experiment. She drew her brows together in consternation. Bloody Mum and her friends.

………

"Is there something the matter?" he asked; he had not meant his query to be serious.

"I feel like we're expected to start performing at any moment," she said, darting her eyes around the room to where his mother, her mother, and Una Alconbury had formed something of an audience.

It was his turn to laugh.

"If we were to relocate," he said in a low voice, "surely not even they would follow."

"It wouldn't surprise me if they did," she said drolly.

He held out his hand in an offer to test this theory, indicating she should precede him to the dining room. She did.

"Have you had anything to eat yet?" she asked; the buffet was up and running, and people were serving themselves from a large tureen.

"I haven't," he said. His memory of whether or not he had liked it nearly two decades ago was eluding him. "It looks… interesting."

She laughed. "It's actually not that bad," she said, leading him up to the table, and handing him a plate. "Here you are."

"Thank you."

He watched as she spooned out something to eat for herself on her own plate, then offered to dish out his as well.

"Say 'when'," she said, going for a second ladle-full.

After the second he told her that was quite enough, and she set the ladle back into the tureen, then replaced the lid. He reached for two forks and handed one to her.

She smiled. "Thanks."

They moved off to the side to eat, setting their wine glasses down onto the shelf of a hutch. It would seem that the trio of ladies did not actually follow them. He was thankful.

"So," he said, straining to think of something to talk about. 

"So," she said.

"The curry's quite good," he said, then felt stupid for saying so.

"Think it's Una's recipe," she said. "It's a shame that I tend to associate it with feeling—" She stopped suddenly, turning crimson, reaching for her wineglass and taking in a sip.

"'Feeling' what?"

She looked back to him sheepishly. "Feeling hung over."

He chuckled, reminded what Una had said. "Must have been quite a New Year's party," he said, then said in a teasing tone that surprised even himself, "I've heard about your glamourous lifestyle."

"What? 'Glamourous lifestyle'?" she asked. "Who told you I had a glamourous lifestyle?" He wasn't sure if she seemed pleased or offended to be pinned with such a description.

"Una Alconbury," he admitted.

"Oh, God," she said. "I dare not think what else she said about me."

"That you were an avid reader," he said; she actually brightened at that. "And an avid feminist, and that you were constantly being taken out—" He stopped suddenly, wishing he'd never mentioned it, but then added so as not to leave things hanging, "By men."

"Oh," she said.

Her mother came up to them at that moment, beaming smiles to each of them. "Enjoying yourselves, then?"

"Yes," said Mark. Bridget only nodded. "Having a very nice time."

"Good, I'm glad," said Pam Jones; turning to her daughter, she leaned in to hiss what he presumed to be advice, in what she must have thought was a confidential tone of voice: "Now, you be careful when you sit down, young lady, with that dress as short as it is; don't want him thinking you're easy meat."

Her skin flooded practically burgundy at that comment. 

"By the way, Bridget," he said smoothly, "I meant to compliment you on your dress; very classy, and quite becoming on you." 

She offered a grateful smile. "Anything beats the last dress you saw me in."

Pam's smile turned to something a little more forced. "Well," Pam said, "you two have a nice time talking, then."

When Pam was out of earshot, Mark offered, "I'm sorry about that."

"I'm the one who should apologise," she said. "After all, she is _my_ mother."

"I didn't quite mean that."

She furrowed her brows. "What for, then?"

"I didn't mean to suggest earlier that… well, that I thought you were."

"Thought I was what?"

"Dating a different man every night," he said euphemistically.

"Ah," she said, spearing another section of curry, then looked up with a smile. "'Easy meat'."

He chuckled despite his discomfort. "I suppose so."

"If I were," she continued, "I'd hardly need the hens of Grafton Underwood trying to set me up." She blushed again. "Not that I mind renewing our acquaintance, I mean."

"No, I know what you meant." He stopped to eat some more of his dinner, reflecting on the things his mother had said; she was probably on her best behaviour in front of her parents, but even still, he could tell that she was rather nice, sweet, and all of those overused but appropriate adjectives that his mother had described her with, and found himself very much warming to her.

………

They made it through dinner with no more disasters, continued to banter small talk back and forth as they finished their food, and all she could keep thinking in amazement that her mother had finally got it right, that she had finally managed to find a man with manners, grace, and kindness, all wrapped up in a very handsome package, with whom to set her up.

The trouble was that she had not had a fag since she'd arrived in Grafton Underwood, and as the minutes ticked away, she found herself craving one more and more until she could no longer stand it. "Here," she said abruptly, holding out her hand and completely breaking the flow of the conversation. "Let me take these to the kitchen."

He looked surprised. "Oh, sure, okay."

She stacked his plate on hers, then, swiping up her clutch purse, headed for the kitchen. She put the plates down on the counter midstride before heading straight out the back door, not even caring that she had no coat on.

………

Mark had expected her to be back immediately from the kitchen, but when she did not return right away, he put two and two together and realised what her grasping her purse was all about. He chuckled. Still the rebellious child sneaking off for a smoke.

He went into the kitchen, found no Bridget and no other exit but the back door.

He cleared his throat, put on his most severe expression, and went to the back door, preparing to 'discover' her. She was standing there on the patio under cover of the awning, clearly enjoying her long-denied cigarette, eyes closed, slowly exhaling a trail of smoke and breath as she stood there.

He pushed open the door so that it swung out and made a great racket at the same time he said in a very solemn, stern voice, "I was wondering where you'd got off to." The combination caused her to almost literally jump. He strode closer to her, bearing down on her with his imperious gaze.

"Hi," she said, withering beneath his implied censure. "I just… decided to… smoke."

"I see that," he said disapprovingly, lifting his chin, folding his hands behind his back. "It's not very good for you."

"I know, I know," she said in defeat, drawing one last drag from that cigarette before dropping it to the ground and snuffing it out with her shoe. "I get the lecture from my mum often enough."

"I'm surprised at you," he said coolly. "I really am."

She looked down. 

"I half-expected to find you in the shed like last time."

Her eyes flew up to meet his again and only then did he dare to smile.

"Oh!" She burst out in a relieved laugh. "You bastard!" she said, still chuckling.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I couldn't resist, given our history."

She was still grinning, and God, she had a great smile. "I would hate to face you in a courtroom with a poker face like that."

He chuckled again; it wasn't the first time he'd heard that. "Though you really ought to have taken my advice at age fourteen and not taken up the habit to start with," he offered seriously, though was still grinning at her.

"I'm trying to quit," she said tartly, smiling impishly herself.

They stood there, face to face; as those smiles faded he simply gazed down into those bright blue eyes, their breath floating up into the cool night air.

"We should…" he began.

She nodded.

"Go inside," she said, just as he said,

"Have dinner sometime."

He saw her flush pink again, but recovered her composure quickly. "We had dinner tonight," she volleyed back.

"Have dinner _again_ sometime," he amended, then added, affecting a more serious tone, "There's just one problem."

She looked alarmed. "Problem? What's the problem?"

"The problem," he said, "is my mother. And your mother. And Una Alconbury."

She gave him a sidelong look. "What about them?"

"I'm hesitant to give them the satisfaction of knowing they were right."

He watched with amusement as his meaning trickled through; she then smiled, which turned into a chuckle and a shy glance downwards. "Oh."

"It's odd, thinking back to those years ago," he said quietly. 

"How do you mean?" she asked, looking up again. 

"I had a feeling back then you'd turn out to be as pretty as you are."

As he said it he felt his own face flush with heat.

She smiled, her eyes fixed on his. "I think you were the only one who did," she said softly.

There was a quiet silence to follow, a somewhat charged silence, and he thought about following through with the impulse to pull her into his arms and kiss her, but the warring faction in his head held him back; they had only just met again, after all, and despite all he'd heard about her, he didn't really know her that well at all. Even if he did like what he knew.

"There you are!"

It was Pam Jones, looking somewhat smug as she came out onto the patio. He took a small step back away from Bridget.

"What are you two doing out here in the cold? Durr," she said. "You'll catch your death."

"I was keeping your daughter company while she—" At Bridget's panicked look, he finished with, "got some fresh air."

"Well, just wanted to say that dessert's out," announced Pam. "Raspberry surprise as well as chocolate cake."

"We'll be in straightaway," said Bridget.

She watched her mother retreat back into the kitchen, watched her further retreat into the house before turning back to Mark. "You heard the woman," she said. "Chocolate cake."

Mark chuckled.

She turned to lead them back into the house, but just outside the door, she turned so abruptly he nearly walked into her. "What—"

He stopped because he was too surprised and too otherwise occupied to continue.

………

She knew it was against every rule of dating that existed: men did the pursuing, women were the pursued and it was bad form to lay down one's cards so soon into the acquaintance. The truth was, however, that she had pretty much decided she wanted him to know she liked him, and that she was definitely interested in getting to know him better. Perhaps it was the wine causing her to be a little bolder than usual, but just before they went back into the house, she turned, got up onto her toes, and planted a kiss on his lips.

What she wasn't expecting was for him to take her around the waist and return the kiss, holding her close, kissing her with a depth of passion that caught her completely unawares, especially considering they could be happened upon at any time by one or more parental units.

"Am I to assume," he asked when he pulled back, "that's a 'yes' to dinner?"

She laughed, and nodded; yes, she liked him very much indeed. She reached and took his hand, tugging him into the house.

………

Though he'd very much enjoyed it, Mark had been taken aback by her impulsive kiss, though he realised he shouldn't have been; spontaneity seemed to be part of who she was. They went to the dessert buffet and he served up two plates of chocolate cake for the two of them. _Just like old times_ , he thought with a smile.

This time they found a sofa to situate themselves on; his eyes were, of their own accord, drawn to her thigh as she sat down. She caught him looking and rather than purse her lips and look stern about it, she chuckled and blushed again, taking in a bite of cake.

"You're _not_ ," he reminded, which meant nothing to others around them, but meant everything to both of them. He leaned in to add, "Hardly your fault that you have nice legs."

Her blush deepened, but she was definitely smiling as she pulled the fork out of her mouth again.

"Well, hello there," said his mother, approaching them from behind the sofa. "Hope you're enjoying yourself, Mark."

"Yes, Mother, very much so."

"And Bridget," she said sweetly, "hope Mark has been treating you like a gentleman."

"Perfectly so, Mrs Darcy," she said, flashing a smile up to Elaine before turning to Mark again. "Almost to a fault."

His mother laughed. "That sounds like Mark, all right. Well, Mark, just wanted you to know that it's time to go."

"Oh," said Bridget, sounding disappointed.

"Okay," said Mark. "Drive home safely."

Now Bridget looked confused.

Mark explained, "I brought my own car. Heading back for London when I leave. Have court in the morning."

"Oh," she said.

Elaine bent to kiss Mark goodbye on the cheek. "Offer to drive her back," she whispered, then pulled back and gave him a sly wink and a smile before saying goodbye again then going off to find Malcolm.

Very fine idea.

"So," asked Mark, eating another bite of cake. "When do you head back for town?"

"In the morning," she said, then added miserably, "on the train."

"If you like, you can ride with me."

"Tonight?"

He nodded.

"I'm not really… packed."

"Would it take long for you to do so?"

She offered a small smile, which then broadened into a grin. "Not at all."

………

She'd eaten her cake more quickly than was lady-like, but for a chance to not only get a ride back to London but with a man she was liking more and more by the minute, she thought she might be forgiven by the etiquette gods.

She hadn't really unpacked the bag she only brought for what was to be an overnight stay; it was only her makeup, hairbrush, and other toiletries in the loo that she had to gather up and shove back into her bag. The one thing holding her up, though, was her other trainer. She scoured the bedroom and the bath and had no luck finding it.

Even as she realised she'd been upstairs for far too long for her supposed not-too-long packing, she just couldn't leave without it.

She heard a light rapping on the slightly open door, saw Mark in the hall peeking in. "Was just coming to see if you needed a hand carrying anything down," he said.

"No," she said, still striding around the room to see if she could spot the errant shoe. "Just looking for my lost trainer. Can't leave—"

"This one?"

He had come in and picked it up off of her pillow, where it had nestled in with a stuffed bear.

She grinned, though felt foolish for not having spotted it. _Handsome, witty_ , she thought, _and useful to boot._ "Thanks."

"No problem," he said, giving her the shoe, then looking at her and the room around them. "Looks just like I remember it. Mostly."

"Mostly?"

"Well, it was a long time ago."

She chuckled. "Yeah, it was."

"Half a lifetime ago," he added.

"More than that for me."

He came near with his hand outstretched, and she handed him the bag, which was what he seemed to be asking for. "I'm glad we met back then," he said, "though I have regretted not getting back to you sooner about the book."

She chuckled. "I figured you just pitched the thing, thinking it was a load of romantic teenaged crap I was hurling at you. No harm done."

"On the contrary," he said, "I read it as soon as I got home."

She blinked in surprise. "You did?"

"Yes," he said. "And I made a point to read it again every once in a while." He chuckled, though it seemed a bitter sound. "There _was_ a period there where I didn't, though, when the copy you'd given me had utterly and completely disintegrated, and I didn't get another one until recently." He cleared his throat and looked back to her, his gaze piercing again. "I made some pretty foolish mistakes during that time, but I'm back on track now."

"I'm glad to hear," she said, her voice seemingly having gone on holiday without her.

He laughed, more like the comfortable laugh she'd gotten used to hearing that night. "You know what's very strange to me?"

"What?"

"The cognitive dissonance of this room from then coupled with… _you_. As you are now, a beautiful woman."

She turned very shy again. "I was not much of a looker then, it's true," she said. "It horrifies me to think—"

"You were adorable," he said firmly, "and sweet and engaging and sharp as a whip, and I knew even then it would only be a matter of time before you'd have the boys' hearts racing." He paused, looking away before looking at her again. "Didn't have the faintest idea at the time that it might eventually turn out to be mine."

She had no earthly idea how to respond to him; she met his eyes and smiled. After a too-long silence, she said at last, her tongue feeling clumsy in her mouth, "You're too kind."

He smiled a small smile then turned for the door.

"Mark," she said. When he looked back to her, she added, "It _is_ strange."

"What?"

She took in a deep breath. "For you to tell me… _that_ … while we're in my old room, the place where most of my insecurities as an awkward teenaged girl are still concentrated," she explained quietly. "I thought about that conversation often as I was getting older, how it—and I mean the one after you came in, after I slammed the door in your face—felt like the first real adult conversation I'd ever had. Every other adult always had talked to me like I was a little girl, a child. But we… we had a… _real_ conversation."

………

It was Mark's turn to be surprised, since he had always thought he'd been kind of heavy-handed with the directness of what he'd said, the advice he'd offered to her. "You explained your problem and I tried to help; that's all, really."

"Ah, but it was as much what you didn't do as what you did do," she explained. "You didn't dismiss my feelings or tell me to stop being such a silly-willy."

"A what?"

"Never mind. That's my mum's term," she said. "And then there was the book. I realise now that I probably _was_ being rather a romantic, starry-eyed teen about it. You not only let me ramble on about it and granted that I might even be right about it, but even allowed yourself to be convinced enough to read it, too." She shook her head then said, more to herself than anything, "Still can't believe that…"

He chuckled. "It is a good book."

"Yes," she said, nodding enthusiastically.

"One that I would very much enjoy continuing to discuss with you," he said, spotting the digital bedside clock and doing the mental math for the length of the drive, "but as it's getting on towards eight o'clock…"

Her hands flew to her mouth. "I'm sorry. You have court in the morning. I'm so sorry." She headed for the door, headed for where he was standing. "Let's go."

"Is that everything?"

"Yes," she said.

"Hold on, there is one thing you forgot."

"What's that?"

"To allow me to banish those teenaged insecurities."

He caught her look of confusion even as he quickly bent, pressed his lips to hers, and kissed her at length, cradling her head at the back of her neck.

When she pulled away, looking very rosy-cheeked and even more gorgeous, she said in a low voice, "Consider them banished."

………

The normally boring-as-arse drive passed quickly in his company (and in his very comfortable car); she learned very quickly that he was brilliant beyond all sense and that he forgot nothing in the course of discourse. It was a true pleasure talking with him, just as it had been those years ago in her room; so spirited was the discussion that she nearly forgot that she was riding home with a man who'd admitted to her she made his heart race.

She remembered again in a rush when he asked her, as they got nearer to the heart of London, where exactly it was she lived. She told him, and he smiled. "Not far from me at all," he said amusedly. "Just like Mother said."

"Where do you live?" she asked.

"Over on Holland Park Avenue."

She felt her eyes grow hugely wide. _Wealthy,_ she thought; _just like Mum said._

He chuckled, then indicated, turning onto her street.

He pulled up to the kerb to park, then rose from the vehicle to open her door.

"Here we are," he said, reaching out to take her bag. "Service with a smile."

She laughed, rising from the passenger seat. "Thank you."

"So," he asked. He suddenly looked very nervous. "About dinner."

"Oh, yes," she said. "I'm free Friday if you are."

"I mean now."

"What are you talking about? We had dinner already."

"Turkey curry seems a very long time ago," he said. "I'm hungry again."

"But you have court in the morning."

"And I'm sure you have to work," he said.

"I do," she said. "And where would we go at a time like this? It's nearly ten-thirty. By the time we were to get seated and order…"

"I suppose you're right," he said, looking back to his car. "I guess I'll see you on Friday, then."

She realised that she sounded very much like she did _not_ want to have dinner with him.

"Wait," she said. He turned back to her. "What did you have in mind?"

"Delivery," he said. "And at the risk of sounding completely tasteless: your place or mine?"

She smiled, then laughed (as did he), then gestured towards her building. "Well, since we're already here… come on up. There's a place 'round the corner I order from all the time. They can have it here in twenty minutes."

He smiled tenderly. "It's a date."

………

Her place was warm and cosy, which didn't surprise him in the least; neither was he surprised to see books everywhere. The place around the corner turned out to have Thai and Chinese offerings. He settled on pad Thai, she decided on the same, and he offered to pay for it all. While they waited for the delivery, she excused herself to change into something more comfortable, which sent them both into giggles again.

The food was good, the conversation better, the company best of all. 

"You know," said Bridget, digging chopsticks into the spicy fried noodle and egg dish, "it almost feels like we're on a third date."

"I don't understand."

"It was like we had three dates in all in one day: the Turkey Curry Buffet, the two-hour-plus drive, and now this."

He chuckled again. "If you _really_ want to stretch it… fourth," he said, leaning back on the sofa and pulling up another mouthful of noodles with his chopsticks.

"How do you figure?"

"Cake and conversation in your room at your parents'."

"Oh, that _is_ stretching it," she said. "I was just a kid then. I didn't even have—well." The way she glanced down fleetingly at her own front completed her sentence for her.

"That's true," he said, chuckling. "I remember I thought you were ten."

She picked up a small pillow and threw it at him. "You don't have to remind me." 

"I'm simply pointing out the stark difference between then and now."

Her playful grin became a little more sober as she looked at him, then looked down into her takeaway container, scraping together the last bits and ends of noodles and egg.

He looked into his own, saw it was almost gone. He looked back to her; she was studiously gazing into the container as if it held the meaning of life.

"Did I say something wrong?" he asked gently.

"No," she said, "not at all. Rather the opposite." She cleared her throat and raised her eyes to meet his at last. "This entire day flies in the face of every dating guide and self-help book I've ever read."

"Excuse my ignorance of the genre," he said, "but: how so?"

He saw the flash of a smile crinkle her eyes before her more serious expression returned. "I've known you a day," she said, which didn't honestly tell him much more.

"That isn't true," he said. "You've known me for almost twenty years."

"Not constantly," she said. "We've both changed a lot over that time."

"Does it really feel like you've only known me a day?" he asked. "Because I can say with a great deal of confidence that I feel like I've known you much longer. New acquaintances are still dancing carefully around one another, afraid to say what they're thinking, feeling self-conscious, guard fully in place. I don't feel like that at all."

She smiled shyly and looked down again. "No," she said at last. "I don't suppose I do, either."

"That's good," he said. "I'm not sure what the problem is then."

"I _should_ , though," she explained, looking up again. "Should be more cautious."

He furrowed his brows.

In a small voice she added, "Shouldn't _want_ to keep you up late, with court in morning and work and all."

What she meant precisely was not lost on him, and he was flattered… and even more attracted to her than before. "Ahh," he began. "I, um. I see."

He heard her chuckle, slightly nervously. "I'm not sure if causing you to fumble for words is a good thing."

"You caught me off guard," he said. "Especially when the next thing I was going to ask you was only if you were still interested in dinner on Friday, too."

"Oh." He saw her skin turn pink.

"You misunderstand," he explained. "That was just _me_ being cautious."

"Oh," she said again with a smile.

He reached and set his container down on the floor, then reached over to take her face in his hand, brushing his thumb over her cheek, before dropping his head to place his lips on hers for a kiss. He combed his fingers back into her hair; she sighed a little into his mouth as the kiss deepened, and he slid his hand across her back to pull her closer, soft and sweet pressed up against him in his arms.

He then heard the _thunk_ of her carton hitting the floor, of her chopsticks striking the wood, and they broke apart with a chuckle.

"Sorry," she said, her laughter fading, leaving them gazing into one another's eyes.

It would have been so easy to resume that kiss, and easier still to carry on making love to her, but he instead said quietly, "It is late… and I should go."

"Oh." Hesitantly, she nodded, though it didn't seem like she really understood; she looked slightly hurt. "Okay."

He brushed her long fringe out of her eyes. "Court is early… and I would prefer to take my time, give you my full attention."

He watched a smile spark her features. "Okay," she said again.

"Okay," he repeated with a smile, then ducked forward for a quick kiss before getting to his feet, then reaching his hand to take hers as she stood too.

"Thank you for a most memorable day," he said. "Two, actually."

She laughed. "Likewise."

After slipping into his coat, she walked with him to the door. He pulled it open, preparing to leave, when she asked in an amused tone, "Aren't you forgetting something?"

"Oh, of course. Pardon my manners."

He turned and gave her a kiss goodnight; before he knew it she was in his arms again and he was kissing her slowly, languorously, and with more passion than he should have been considering he was on his way out the door.

"Mark," she said, pulling away. "I meant my number."

"What?" he asked.

She looked amused; he wasn't sure how he felt about it. At last she continued, "How can you call me about Friday if you don't have my number?"

He laughed, cupping her face in his hand gently. "If this day goes against all dating guides and self-help etiquette," he said, "then they're obviously wrong. Sod them all."

She laughed too.

She popped back into the flat proper to get a notepad and a pen, then scrawled down her numbers for him and tore the page out.

"Hand that to me."

He wrote his own numbers down, both home and mobile.

"If we're telling self-help and dating etiquette books to sod off," he explained as he did so, "there's no reason why you shouldn't call me."

………

Bridget smiled as she accepted the pen and pad back from him, saw he had put his numbers there in very precise printing.

"Talk to you soon," she said as she looked back up at him, very seriously in danger of getting lost in his dark brown eyes. She too never would have guessed all those years ago that she might have ended up falling hard for the tall, lanky nerd she'd first befriended in the potting shed.

"Count on it," he said, then, after folding the slip of paper twice and slipping it into his pocket, he walked down the stairs. She stayed at the open flat door, watching him until she could no longer see him and then even still beyond that, leaning against the jamb and feeling a little starry-eyed.

 _Well,_ she thought, _I have a right to be; he_ is _a good kisser._

_The end._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> N.B. It was this description in the book _Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason_ (Chapter 3: Doooom!) that inspired my portrayal of Bridget the teenager:
>
>> Reminded me of when was fifteen and walking along lonely backstreet into town and man started following me then grabbed my arm. Turned to look at attacker in alarm. At time was v. thin in tight jeans. Also, however, had winged spectacles and brace on teeth. Man took one look at my face and ran off.
> 
> If you want to keep going, see ["Of Dresses, Dinner, and Dessert"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/13610388) (Explicit, however). 


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